


Super Brothers

by RenaRoo



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: Jon Kent knew he pretty much had the perfect family life, but something still felt wrong with himself. At the height of feeling like an alien in his own skin, however, his world got turned upside down when his parents took in a troubled child who embodied everything he felt he lacked. However, becoming a brother ended up being the smallest of the trials brought by adopting Christopher Kent. And being best friends with Damian Wayne has not exactly helped keep a neutral perspective on the matter.
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne, Jonathan Samuel Kent & Chris Kent, Jonathan Samuel Kent & Damian Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	1. The Cost of Friends

**Author's Note:**

> I have made no secret over the last few years just how disappointed i’ve been by the treatment and reintroduction of Chris Kent, aka Lor-Zod, in DC Comics. This little guy is one of my favorite comic book characters in existence, and it feels so dirty to see what has become of him. For a while, I’ve wanted to do a story that really tried to rectify the Rebirth version of Chris and the continuity at large with the core of the character I love, so this story is my attempt at that. I can only hope that I bridge that gap gracefully.
> 
> On the other end, I didn’t want to erase Damian or Jon and all the positives I have seen with their relationship and additions to the DCU at large. For their parts in this story, I want to focus on being in the middle school age range, all the confusion that entails, and open a dialogue about issues of gender and acceptance. 
> 
> Obviously, these are a lot of heavy topics, and I am certain that despite my intentions, there can and will be things I mess up. My hope is, when that happens, you all can keep an open dialogue with me on the subjects. I want to learn and better myself and my portrayal of the issues. 
> 
> That being said, please pay attention to the warnings throughout this fic. I will touch on dark subjects, and I don’t want anyone to read and feel unprepared for the subjects broached, which is part of the reason I chose to make an opening scene that is rather dark and disturbing on some levels. It won’t be ALL dark and uncomfortable, but I want to make this plea now rather than later. 
> 
> I hope the story is still worth your read <3 Thank you for your time!

Jon _hates_ this.

At the absolute worst of times, his tiny body reminds him of just how unreliable it is. He can’t count on it, it’s not consistent — it’s not a _Superman_ body no matter how hard he tries to fit it in as one. His limbs are gangly, his bones poke through pale kin, and his messy black hair curls untamed out from around his ears. It’s not _good_ it doesn’t _do_ what he needs it to do.

And at that moment, Jon’s terrified that it’s about to get himself and his best friend killed.

Ordinarily, being half-Kryptonian, Jon would easily burst through chains and bindings without a second thought. And he’s still strong, he tore through the ripe around his waist like it was taffy, but the chains keeping his legs and neck locked to the floor aren’t budging. And Jon’s getting progressively tired.

There’s something strange about this macabre carnival where he and Damian take the center ring. Of _course,_ there is, because it’s Professor Pyg and he’s the stuff of nightmares. But beyond even that, the spotlights on them show with a heavy red glow that is making Jon sluggish and weak.

So weak that he’s less than a circus ring away from Damian and he still can’t get to him.

“Come now, come now, wait your turn,” the grotesque villain squeals in delight toward Jon. “Little Bat has been scheduled for this appointment for such a long time! You must be _patient,_ my little bird. So patient. Everyone has their time with the professor.”

“Superboy!” Damian snarls from where he is tied up, flat and without his utility belt. He’s laying on a gurney that looks far from sanitary and, if Jon didn’t know better, it might even look like Damian is actually concerned. “Focus! Red sunlight radiation shouldn’t dull your _brains_ as much as it does your strength!”

Blinking, Jon looks up to the spotlights again and can see, with what vague telescopic ability he still has, that there _is_ something unusual about the spectrum of light coming from them. “Is that what this is?” he asks, voice small but filled with relief all the same.

“Oh, my, I cannot, must not, pass an opportunity to educate my subjects, inform them of their peril,” Professor Pyg pantomimes his way from the circus ring with Damian toward the center stage with Jon.

Immediately, Jon feels his body stiffen on instinct. He looks warily at the flabby, disgusting pig mask as the rest of the pudgy and unkempt professor makes his way toward Jon. He knows he should be focusing on getting free, but it’s a difficult thing to do when he’s being approached by unmitigated evil and brutality.

He isn’t sure how Damian gets his suit on every night if this is what Gotham patrols are really like.

“It is your body,” Pyg snorts and chortles.

A cold splash washes over Jon. “My body?” he repeats with wide eyes.

“Get _away_ from him, Pyg!” Damian roars, his gurney shaking and rocking with struggle.

“It isn’t right, doesn’t fit on your bones,” Pyg bemoans, jerking out his hip and slithering his own arms around his chest and waist. He sways back and forth on his feet with a sashay of his hips. “It misses the shape of your spirit, the delicate frame of your face. And it’ll only get worse with age.”

Despite himself, Jon feels his struggle slow to a complete stop. His eyes widen as he looks at Pyg. There is a chill that travels from the base of his spine up, standing all his hair on end.

Deep inside of Jon’s chest, muscles tighten and his heart thunders. He feels a shiver move from his core. _No oh no oh no oh no._ HIs guts churn, his jaw trembles.

“Oh, you feel it, don’t you, that deep deep down,” Pyg continues, approaching. “You’re in the last years of it being passable, of being acceptable. Before your bones grind and the sinews snap into shapes thick and unbecoming of your gentle nature. I see what you are, in that deep deep down, because I am an _artist_ who shapes and molds my subjects out from their souls.”

“You’re a monster,” Jon whispers, his voice giving up halfway through.

Pyg’s eyes shine with something dangerous through the outsides of his mask. He reaches forward and cups Jon’s cheek with his itchy gloved hand. Jon doesn’t even know when he got so close; when he started towering so tall over Jon.

“You’ll be one of my finest Dollotrons,” Pyg promises, rubbing his thumb just under Jon’s eye. “But your clay’s too strong, have to soften you up, get you nice and fleshy, then I’ll shave and I’ll cut and I’ll shape you right up.”

It doesn’t come off as a promise, so much as it does a threat, one that terrifies and unsettles Jon deep down within himself.

Jon’s mind draws a blank, his eyes wide and unfocused and he attempts, desperately, to come up with some intelligent response. But he can’t, not while a fear racks his every nerve and turns his muscles to stone.

It takes Jon completely and utterly by surprise when a familiar whoosh in the air flies overhead before glass crashes and electricity sparks. He catches a glance at the familiar shape of a Batarang lodged into the spotlight directly overhead.

He’s instantly overcome with relief.

Pyg releases his cheek and steps back wildly, looking around. “No! Not now! My art is not _ready!”_ he cries out before letting loose some piglike squeals and sobs.

Looking toward Damian, Jon expects to see his friend released but is surprised to see Damian still trapped. He squints, uncertain of what’s happening when a second then third Batarang plunge into the remaining red sun spotlights.

“Batman?” Jon wonders out loud.

“Ugh,” Damian lets out in frustration before struggling with even more force against his bindings. “Overdramatic, sanctimonious, can’t believe—“

Dollotrons are racing onto the tent floor while Professor Pyg whines and bemoans his ultimate fate, but as the lights extinguish one by one, the shadows take on a new form.

She moves like a dancer, each step and hit against the army of zombified victims perfectly paced and timed. She is all in black, save for her golden accents and bat, and she spares not a single motion. A kick becomes a launch for a leap becomes a smack becomes a twirl becomes a fist to the face of the blubbering Professor. And each and every movement grows in its momentum.

Jon has never seen anything like this outside of super speed, and he _certainly_ hasn’t seen it using the shapes and silhouettes of the shadows like a comforting show curtain. He has so many questions and so many concerns that he forgets himself and getting free. Even if he could, with his body still unresponsively slow and dulled from the radiation.

Damian, at the least, is in motion, finally getting one of his hands free and using the points of his gauntlet to slice through the leather of the other bindings. He is muttering to himself, annoyed and embarrassed based on the flush in his cheeks. It’s not a _rare_ sight but it _is_ unusual for Jon to see Damian this way around one of his multitudes of siblings.

The shadowy bat launches into a final attack, knocking out the last of the Dollotrons before pouncing on the escaping Professor Pyg like a hungry lioness.

With her full weight on Pyg, the Bat narrows her eyes and for the first time can really be seen by Jon as she reaches over and yanks Pyg’s disgusting mask off of his face. Her lips curl in displeasure, but it doesn’t take away from her fair features or the delicate, smooth control she has over her body.

“Wow,” Jon hears himself say as Damian reaches his side and begins pulling out a small blowtorch for the chains. “Is that your sister?”

 _“SHH!”_ Damian hisses.

Jon strains to listen to whatever is being said between the Bat and Pyg, but it gets him nowhere, only words at a time coming in clearly as his powers remain in flux. Regardless, Pyg is squirming and blubbering too much for it to matter anyway.

“Took her damn time,” Damian snarls, letting Jon lean on him as he glares toward his sister.

“She saved our lives,” Jon reminds him.

Damian’s nose curls. _“Tt,_ debatable.”

Cassandra apparently finishes whatever minor conversation she was having with Pyg and flips him over, handcuffing him swiftly. She’s powerful and strong without losing her leanness or size, it mesmerizes Jon in a way. By the time she looks up at them, her expression has completely changed.

“You okay?” she asks them both.

“No thanks to you,” Damian says at the same time Jon gets out, “All thanks to you!”

Something approximating a smile crosses her face before she gets to her feet and reaches up to her ear. “Oracle. Done.”

Looking at Cassandra, Jon feels like he’s found yet another new hero. “Whoa, your sister’s awesome. And cool. And so in control,” Jon tells Damian, his strength returning. “You’ve got so many siblings, can I have your sister?”

“Father would be displeased, otherwise I’d say yes,” Damian huffs in that way that Jon cannot tell, for the life of him, if it’s sarcasm or not.

* * *

Damian watches as his friend flies off.

It took the better part of an hour as well as a stop at Big Belly Burger for Jon to feel up to the task, but the half-Kryptonian _flies_ home after departing from them and Damian watches him go.

Cassandra, as it turns out, is also there. She leans back against her motorcycle — a sleek but redundant design, like any of the numerous other bat-themed motorcycles or vehicles any of their extended family has access to — and watches Damian more than Jon.

They haven’t had much time with just the two of them. Their paths rarely intersect. And Damian is pretty sure he prefers it that way.

His cheeks are still on fire from the embarrassment of being rescued by her.

“I would have gotten out,” he informs her, crossing his arms. “Pyg was distracted and far away from me. I was working on my restraints.”

She tilts her head at him, a frown tight on her face. “Distracted _you,_ too,” she points out.

And Damian knows she’s right about that, he _was_ distracted. Just the _look_ on his friend’s face, the growing horror and dread. Jon isn’t used to the types of villains that Gotham can throw at people, the psychological toll it takes. Damian is, or at least he likes to think he is, but Jon still can be scared and surprised.

But what looks crossed Jon’s face at that moment were unexpected even to Damian. He had never seen anything like it. Jon had been soaking up every word and phrase like it had been ripped straight from his dreams.

It was enough that it frightened _Damian_ for his friend, and he didn’t even know why.

Over the course of an hour and a Big Belly Burger, Jon had refrained from mentioning a single thing about it.

That, too, was very unlike Jon.

Such things could be dwelled on at another time, though. Damian had the pressing matter at hand of his own reckoning. And his so-called sister.

Without looking up to meet Cassandra’s gaze, Damian kicked at the ground. “What are you going to tell father about tonight?” he asks.

“Truth,” Cass answers unhelpfully.

Gritting his teeth, Damian looks back at her, eyes narrowed and angry. “That’s not fair, you know,” he growls at her. “You never come around, never work with any of the rest of us, and then you pop in and judge us from on high. No _wonder_ father speaks highly of you. You’re just like him.”

Her brows come together in a way that wrinkles her forehead. It’s hard to read her expression, even with her modified mask and hood. “I’m not,” she says. Her words sound final, but she apparently thinks better of them and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Judging you. I’m not.”

Damian looks her over. She hasn’t moved from her bike but her arms have dropped to her side. She is looking at him rather intently and it makes him want to squirm in his combat boots.

“Tt, _sure_ you’re not,” he finally snaps back. “You’ll still tell father that I was captured by Professor Pyg.”

“Yes,” she said too casually.

“And that I let Superboy get captured, too,” Damian glowered more at that one, his eyes rest on the asphalt beneath his feet. He kicked again.

Cassandra paused slightly longer with that one.

When her hand snaked its way onto his shoulder, Damian flinched bodily. He slapped her hand away and twisted around to get away on instinct. He _hated_ that — no one should be able to sneak up on him. He was trained by League of Assassins, he had been prepared since before he could speak to be on guard.

But Cassandra had, too.

She looked at him passively. “Not your fault, happens,” she said, in reference to Pyg.

“That’s not what father will think,” Damian snaps.

“I’ll _tell_ him,” she promises.

Damian stares at her for a moment, sizing her up and considering all the ways he could make her more respectful to him. But it fizzles out quickly. He _knows,_ as much as he resists the thought, that he isn’t upset with her.

He’s upset with himself.

“In the League, they trained us that there is a cost to every relationship formed,” Damian informs Cassandra like she doesn’t intuitively know from her own history. “Partnerships, even necessary ones, would cost you heavily. They could be deadly. And more relationships than strictly necessary should be _avoided._ All this _family_ and _friendship_ that is just around me all the time now. I don’t want to pay the cost for them.” He looks to the skies where Jon once flew. “I don’t want my friend to pay for them either. It’s not worth it.”

Cassandra stays quiet, but she places her hand on Damian’s shoulder again. He doesn’t attempt to knock it off this time.

“Sometimes it is,” she tells him.

But Damian isn’t so sure. Especially not hearing it from _her._ Cassandra does not work with others to the same degree as the rest of their family. She doesn’t go to school. She doesn’t join teams outside of father’s pet projects. She doesn’t operate in a daily partnership like Damian has with Grayson or father.

She seems to be living by those lonesome standards that the League taught Damian. And all anyone can do is praise her.

What sort of lesson is Damian supposed to learn from that?

* * *

Jekuul feels oppressively hot outside of the crystal palace.

Lor has watched his parents stand, looming in the skies, over the land’s natives as they constructed the palace for them. He watched as their eyes glowed threateningly each time the native population faltered, and he remembered how easily their bones cracked and snapped when corrected by the general and his lieutenant. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying to witness.

Inside the palace, things are smooth and temperature regulated. The pantries are stocked with foods far greater than anything Lor had tasted within the Phantom Zone, but still foreign and sometimes unexpected.

If he questions what was on his plate, he is quickly reprimanded.

So he doesn’t ask.

It should be easy, if not _simple,_ to follow the rules at this point. Stay in the palace, eat when told without questions, listen to his lessons from the Sunstones without fault.

He is the _Last Son of Krypton,_ and he is supposed to inherit everything the universe owed them for their lost greatest civilization. All he has to do is stay in place, not ask questions, don’t be, don’t move.

But he was not born on Krypton, nor was he born on Jekuul — _New Krypton,_ by his father’s declaration — he was born in the perilous depths of the Phantom Zone. A prison.

Inside of the Phantom Zone, there was no movement, there were no questions, there was not _being_ or _doing_ or _screaming_ or _aging_ — that had been the only thing he’d ever existed and it was torturous.

Outside of the Phantom Zone, he thought, things are supposed to be different. He is supposed to move and change and grow, he thinks.

So even though there is every reason _not_ to leave the palace, Lor-Zod leaves in the oppressive heat and feels the sun against his Kryptonian skin as he flies under the two yellow suns.

As he moves across the lands, the violet skinned natives of Jekuul fall to their knees and avert their eyes. They whisper and whimper in a tongue completely foreign to Lor-Zod and it feels, well. It feels _good._

Lor-Zod knows that they react this way to his parents, but to have even adults of the alien race fall in reverence to him, he feels more powerful. He feels like the Last Son of Krypton that his father insists he is.

He wonders, vaguely, if it is something his father would like to see.

Deep down, Lor hopes so. Because it is easy for Lor to imagine what his father would think or say when he _doesn’t_ like something Lor has done. He has no concept of what would happen when he makes his father pleased.

He is nearly at the end of the primitive village when Lor’s eyes fall on an unusual sight.

One of the Jekuul natives, a young female no older than Lor and having not yet earned her yellow stripes, stands and stares up at Lor. She doesn’t drop to her knees or avert her eyes.

For a few seconds, Lor continues flying, arching his head back to watch for the girl to finally do as she is supposed to but she never does.

Aggravated and surprised, Lor turns in his flight path and descends, landing promptly in front of the girl.

“Why aren’t you kneeling?” he asks before his feet are even secure.

She stares at him, head tilting. Her black eyes are large and reflective, Lor can see himself in them.

He huffs at her, crossing his arms like he has seen his father do so many times before. “Don’t you speak Kryptonian?” he sneers.

After a quiet moment, she scratches at her head and looks around. That seems to answer Lor’s question for him.

“You’re supposed to _kneel,”_ he groans. “Look, like this,” he says, bowing down to one knee and lowering his head. He’s seen so many others do it before.

Then he hears laughter.

Lor looks up and sees the girl covering her mouth as she giggles before she gets down on both her knees and dips her body down in a silly, teetering display. A mockery. Then she gets back to her feet.

“No!” Lor snaps, getting back to his own feet and grabbing her shoulders.

At first, she stiffens, surprised, and looks at him wildly. Her hands grip onto his wrists and she seems afraid.

“Like _this,”_ Lor repeats, then pushes down on her. He dips with her, down to the ground on their knees. But when they both lower their heads, they immediately smack foreheads.

It feels like _nothing_ to Lor, but for the girl, she jolts back and begins rubbing at her skull.

Instinctively, just like he follows his parents’ motions, Lor reaches up and rubs at his own head. They stare at each other as they both sit there on their knees, rubbing their heads.

Then, despite himself, Lor giggles.

The girl giggles.

They both giggle.

Once the giggles subside, they are both sitting on their knees in the dirt and staring at each other expectantly. They don’t speak the same language. They aren’t remotely the same and, yet, Lor has never felt more of a need to communicate with someone in his life.

He points at his chest, at the house emblem emblazoned on his armor. “Zod,” he tells her. “Zod,” he repeats.

For a moment, the girl is quiet, absorbing his words, then she points at her chest and the purple skin. “Jekuul,” she says.

“No, not _what_ you are,” he mutters, catching on quickly. “I’m not…” He _is_ a Zod, though. Maybe more than he is a Kryptonian, if only in his own mind. He sucks in a breath and tries again. He points at his face. “Lor,” he tells her.

Understanding fills her expression and she points at her own face. “Ti’ahl.”

And, maybe for the first time, Lor feels a wide smile cross his face.

From that moment on, their afternoon is filled with delight.

Ti’ahl points at every structure, every creature, every plant with words and phrases that will not stop saying until Lor repeats. Repeatedly, Lor picks Ti’ahl up easily, flies her from location to location, lifts up every boulder and animal they come across as she claps in delight.

It’s thrilling — and Lor laughs more than he has ever laughed before in his life.

By the time the second sun begins to set, a chill quickly crosses the lands, and Lor can see Ti’ahl gain a shiver. It makes Lor feel _bad_ to see Ti’ahl uncomfortable in any way.

“Hold on,” he calls to her at one point, slowing her run through the grass. He reaches up and carefully unclips his cape from his armor. Grinning, he floats toward Ti’ahl and drapes her with the heavy fabric.

After Lor ties the cape closed over her neck, Ti’ahl looks down and touches the knot. A funny look crosses her face and she looks at Lor.

Ti’ahl leaps onto a nearby rock, standing tall and crossing her arms. “ZOD!” she declares herself.

Realizing what is happening, Lor giggles and drops obediently to his knees. “I kneel!” he laughs.

At first, Ti’ahl joins his laughter, but then she becomes strangely quiet.

Confused, Lor looks up at her. “Ti’ahl?” he asks before realizing that a shadow has crossed over them both.

Heart sinking, Lor twists around and sees his father, arms crossed, standing over them both. He looks _displeased._

“Father,” Lor gets out, voice thin.

“Is this how I find the Last Son of Krypton? _Kneeling before his lessers?”_ the general snarls. He drops his hands to his sides as Lor begins to stand up and easily kicks Lor back down. “If you _lower yourself_ in the dirt for a mongrel child, you _will_ stay there for your leader, do you understand?”

Breath catching in his throat, Lor nods. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“To the palace. Immediately,” General Zod orders, his gaze carrying over to Ti’ahl. “There _will_ be a price to pay for this, Lor-Zod. Let us see if you are grown enough to pay it.”

Lor cannot bring himself to look at Ti’ahl as he leaps to his feet and takes off in the air. His blood is rushing to his ears, tears building up in his eyes even before he reaches his top speeds of flight.

It isn’t until he was home that he realized he had left his cape.


	2. Pay in Full

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost late and I apologize. I have no excuses other than my brain is turning into as much mush as everyone else’s. But I really am enjoying where the future of this story is going and am really excited to get there. But, first, we have to reach some difficult places first. 
> 
> Before we go further, I must say this: TRIGGER WARNING. There is overt child abuse and child harm in this chapter. It’s not super detailed and it gets cut off, but I do not want people to get upset from it without warning. So please take care of yourself first and foremost.
> 
> I’m blown away by the support this fic is getting so far and I appreciate you all so very much! Special thanks to the lovely comments and promotion from @secretlystephaniebrown, @spiralcass, @noartificialfruitjuice, @fred-astairs-dark-impulses, @karagordon, and elietrope on AO3 and tumblr!

Damian isn’t surprised when he is the lone attendant of breakfast the following morning. His wrists are still bruised up and a little painful from his restraints, but he ignores them under the cuffs of his school uniform and is the picture of polite society and manners. He eats confidently and alone.

It isn’t _unusual,_ only disappointing.

Fortunately, Alfred is nothing if not an excellent reader of the atmosphere and does not force conversation or dullness on Damian that is unwarranted. He leaves the youngest Wayne to a peaceful meal.

The quiet makes it easier for Damian to overhear Alfred conversing just a step or so into the hall.

“Ah, Miss Cassandra, it is unusual to see you up and about at such an hour,” Alfred’s voice carries with a genuine mix of praise and surprise.

“Yeah, um,” Cass mutters, speech slurred with sleep, “can you, um, take me? Soon? He wanted to talk to me.”

“But of course. I can take you as I take Master Damian to the academy this morning.”

Starring toward the door, Damian lets his oatmeal slip off of his spoon and carelessly plop back into the bowl. He doesn’t even pay attention to the splashes of oats which end up on Alfred’s meticulously cared for table runner. He’ _absorbed_ by the implications of the conversation happening in front of him.

After an encounter with Professor Pyg which ended as eventfully as his did, Damian anticipated some negative news getting to either his father or Grayson. And while Damian didn’t _want_ for Dick to hear about Damian’s poor performances without him, there was at least some trust.

Grayson would be annoyingly supportive and want to use the entire event as some sort of learning experience.

Father is something else entirely.

After a few moments of subconsciously holding his breath, Damian glances down to his oatmeal and finds it suddenly subpar.

He pushes out from the table, chair legs protesting loudly, and tosses the handkerchief from his lap onto the table. Damian is on his feet and in the hall before Cassandra even has time to leave Alfred and redress herself for the day.

“Alfred, I do not need to attend the academy today,” he announces.

The butler tilts his head slightly and raises his eyebrows minutely. “I believe the education system would disagree with you entirely.”

“I have things to discuss with Father,” Damian elaborates stiffly. “Important information that outweighs any supposed social-developments I am pretending to make.”

Cassandra scratches at her jawline and frowns at Damian. She’s assessing him, her dark eyes boring into Damian’s soul and evaluating every tremor of his muscle.

Which makes it even more annoying that her choice of commentary is to say, “Bad at it. Pretending,” she jokes.

“Silence, _you,”_ Damian hisses ferally. “The entire first year I lived here, I had to listen to everyone talk about you and never once did they mention your sass.”

She offers a half-shrug. “Forgot the best part.”

“Tt, more like the _worst,”_ Damian teeters, hands on his hips.

For a moment, Cassandra seems to be ignoring him as she looks over Damian’s head at Alfred and rotates her shoulders. “Maybe shouldn’t go to school,” she offers, surprising Damian entirely.

Alfred seems just as taken by the suggestion and looks at her suspiciously. “Why so, Miss Cassandra?”

“Had a bad night,” she explains. “Probably _does_ have important stuff to say.”

Heat flushes into Damian’s face. His eyes glaze into a distinct red hue and his shoulders tremble as he clutches his hands into fists by his side. There is almost certainly steam coming off of him as anger overtakes him in a way that it hasn’t for ages now.

“How _dare_ you!” he roars.

All too casually, Cassandra glances down to Damian and raises an eyebrow at him. She doesn’t _say_ anything with words.

“How _dare_ you assume so much about me! You don’t even _know_ me!” Damian continues, bringing his fists up as if ready to brawl. “Perhaps what I’m going to do is while _you_ wish to tattle to Father, I’ll tell him the _truth_ about how you are nothing but an interference here in Gotham! That you do not deserve to trespass on my affairs! And that _absolutely everyone_ wishes you would bugger off again so that everyone can go back to the way things were!”

“Master Damian, that is enough!” Alfred says coolly. He never raises his voice, but he never needs to.

Despite himself, Damian snaps his jaw closed. But he doesn’t stop glaring into Cassandra’s face, her eyes. His anger is still boiling over, no matter how much he’s contained it.

Cassandra looks back at him, her face drawn and unreadable.

It makes Damian even more upset.

“That is no way to speak to anyone, certainly not family,” Alfred reminds Damian. “Considering your injuries—“

“I am _not_ injured that gravely, Pennyworth!” Damian sputters again.

“—I can see the benefit to a day of recuperation from school, so long as we do not continue this theme habitually,” Alfred persists. “We will leave for your father’s office as soon as Miss Cassandra is ready to leave. And we will not leave a moment sooner than that.” He looks to Cassandra and pats her shoulder. It’s the only thing that gets her to pull her gaze away from Damian. “I encourage you to get ready for the day at your leisure, my dear.”

After that, the conversation is over, and Damian ends up sitting in the foyer waiting for the better part of an hour as Cass does _just_ as Alfred insisted.

* * *

“There he is!”

Jon is still wiping at his eyes as he stumbles through the apartment. It’s difficult, in these early mornings, for him to focus on appropriate amounts of strength, so he shoulders into furniture a touch too hard or bangs into the doorframe with enough force to send pictures lined down the walls tumbling down.

Some things that are less natural to him since his coming into power, like flight or his special types of vision, take more effort and alertness. Not his super strength, however fortunately or unfortunately.

He stumbles his way into the kitchen, his feet padding over the shift from hardwood to tile. He can smell the scrambled eggs before his dad even set them on Jon’s prepared plate.

At the table across from Jon is his mom, already in a beautiful silk top with a gold necklace of large geometric squares. Her chin-length hair is curlier than usual which means she hasn’t straightened it. Her lashes are long, nearly swooping down to her cheeks as she looks down to her iPad as she reads. When she takes her cup away from her lips, a dark purple lip stain is left behind on it.

Jon admires her for a moment, scooting into his seat but not pulling up to the table.

“Good morning, honey,” his mom says full of affection. Her violet eyes glance up to his face.

“Good morning,” Jon says back, smiling brightly.

“Leave walking room, champ,” his dad says from behind. Before Jon can even think, two massive hands close in around the edges of Jon’s backrest, then his whole chair is lifted and scooted up until Jon’s chest nearly bumps the table.

“Sorry, Pa,” Jon says automatically, sparing a glance as his father moves over and plants himself in one of the two chairs between Jon and his mom.

Even in a collared shirt and sweater vest, Jon can see what a massive shadow his father leaves for him. He is broad-shouldered and firm, even with his softness. He has a body that exudes power and strength. It’s only with folded in shoulders and deflated presentation that Clark Kent can convince the world there is a difference between himself and Superman.

At home, among family, as _Pa,_ Jon knows his dad is unmistakably Superman.

When Pa’s large hands reach for his cup of orange juice or poke at scrambled eggs with a fork, it makes Jon look at his own hands.

They’re thin, nimble hands. Soft.

Mom has said on more than one occasion that with fingers as long as his, Jon needs to either learn piano or practice keyboard typing. And Jon is _certain_ he has no ear for tunes.

“I almost came to get you a second time, young man,” Pa says between bites of eggs. “I warned you before about staying up late. I know there are plenty of things an eleven-year-old boy thinks are cooler than sleep.”

Curling his nose, Jon shifts uncomfortably. “I’m almost twelve now,” he reminds them. “You said I could push curfew when I turned twelve.”

“And you’re still not twelve,” Mom says, closing out the tabs on her iPad. She looks very seriously at Jon. “And it doesn’t matter _what_ age you are, my _mother’s intuition_ tells me you’re watching scary movies with the Wayne kid again.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Jon squeaks. “I promise I wasn’t!”

“You had nightmares last night, Jon. We share a wall with your room,” Pa says, face the picture of sympathetic. “And it’s okay to have nightmares sometimes, but you’ve been having them a lot lately. Something like that would usually require something scaring you.”

“Like movies,” Mom adds, still eyeing Jon suspiciously. “Is it Gotham? Maybe we shouldn’t let you go to Gotham so much. Especially this time of year. I hate that stuck-up little island, Clark. No wonder he’s scared.”

“Wait, no, it’s not anything to do with Gotham or movies or Damian,” Jon argues emphatically.

Both of Jon’s parents stop and do the thing Jon has come to hate most during their meals. They look up, toward one another, and seemingly carry out an entire conversation with each other through micro expression alone. It would be adorable if they weren’t his parents.

Jon decides to take the time to begin shoveling in his eggs. His dad’s cooking may be simple but it’s always filling.

“Do you want to talk about these nightmares you’re having, Jon?” Pa asks gently. “You and your body have been put through a _lot_ of changes very quickly over the past year or so. You’ve gotten your own powers, you’ve moved schools twice, your mother and I both are back at full time. That’s a lot.”

He chews over his father’s words for a long moment and considers them.

For most of his young life, Jon Kent has been able to tell his parents positively everything on his mind. They are loving, supportive good people. The best people. Whether they’re superheroes or super reporters, they make Jon proud with almost every second of every day.

But his nightmares make his throat fill closed and tight in ways that are impossible to express. He likes to think they could know, but it _feels_ like they couldn’t.

They couldn’t know how certain words or certain looks or certain _things_ make him feel like he’s crawled into someone else’s skin. Like he’s been lying to everyone on accident this whole time. That what people see him as is undeserved.

What could he ever say to explain that?

Not to mention, explaining that he was _patrolling_ in Gotham and got captured by some madman like Professor Pyg is probably worth _far more_ trouble than simply admitting to scary movies with Damian.

“I don’t remember them,” Jon lies through his teeth.

“That can happen,” Pa says warmly.

When Jon looks up, it’s unsurprising to see that his mother’s face is fairly neutral. She looks at him worriedly and unconvinced.

If she plans on saying anything, however, the moment eludes her. Her iPad lights up simultaneously with the default ding of her phone. She glances at them both before getting to her feet. She’s a full inch taller in her heels and wearing Jon’s favorite skirt of hers.

“Clark, are you going to take Jon this morning?” she asks. “I can use it to excuse you from any early bellows from Perry.”

“Of course,” Pa says, leaning back and tilting his head for the optimal kissing angle.

Mom comes around the table and ducks down, holding back her hair delicately as she kisses Jon’s forehead. “Have a good day, hun, I love you.”

“Bye, Mom, you look beautiful,” Jon informs her as she leaves.

He watches her go and takes a breath. His gaze is only broken when his dad holds his glasses out in front of his vision.

“Don’t forget these,” Pa reminds him.

“Oh, thanks,” Jon mutters, taking the thick frames. His motion is stopped, though, as his father doesn’t let go. He glances back up to Pa and raises a brow.

“Jon, do you know how polygraphs work?” Pa asks, still not letting go of the glasses.

“Um, not really,” Jon admits.

“They measure your heartbeat, because if someone’s not a good liar then they will increase their heart rate, and the machine records it,” Pa explains as he finally lets go of Jon’s glasses.

Despite himself, Jon’s heart picks up its pace. He glances down to his lap. “Do you always listen to my heartbeat?”

“Since before you were born,” Pa says softly, running his broad hand over Jon’s hair. His thumb strums the locks affectionately. “And you thought I was the easy parent, huh?”

“I just don’t want to talk about my nightmares yet,” Jon explains worriedly.

“That’s okay,” Pa assures him, letting go of Jon’s hair. “But I’d appreciate you not lying to me or your mother.”

Jon frowns. “I won’t, Pa, I promise. Sorry I did.” He glances toward his mother’s seat and notices her coffee mug sitting where she left it. Her purple lipstick is still staining the side. “Do you listen to mom’s heartbeat?”

“Practically since the day I met her,” Pa laughs, picking up both of their finished plates. “I always listen out for the hearts of the people I love. It’s,” he pauses in thought before continuing his walk to the sink, “it’s comforting to know everyone’s safe.”

Humming some, Jon puts his chin on the kitchen table and focuses. His mom should be in the elevator on her way down. If he uses his x-ray vision he could even watch her. But instead, he listens. It’s hard to focus on the beat alone, to isolate it. It could give him a headache until he’s better at it. But Jon can do it.

It’s one of many things he can do, he can _be_ because of his father — a _polygraph._

But as he listens for his mother’s heart, Jon wonders if there are more things he can do and be because of his mother.

“Pa, it’s a good thing to want to be more like mom, right?” Jon asks before he can stop himself.

His pa lets out a deep laugh over the running water in the sink. “Jon, _everyone_ wants to be more like your mother. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

And that, Jon decides, is comforting.

* * *

Lor-Zod learns through the sunstones in silence. His eyes are transfixed on their histories and piloting and mathematics, but his mind is distantly occupied.

His mother has stood vigilant at the door, unmoving, the entire morning. She has not greeted him yet, has not introduced herself to him. Standing, quietly, scathingly.

The moment Lor finishes his aeronautics lesson, he feels his mother’s hand close around his wrist. He is reaching for the next lesson, but she is suddenly upon him, stopping him. Her face is mere centimeters from his own. Her nose snarls.

“You are summoned, Lor,” she tells him, as though he should already know.

“Where, mother?” he barely has air in his lungs to ask before he is jerked into the air and guided through the halls of their palace.

As they travel swiftly through their palace, Lor notices for the first time that he has not seen servants or even _heard_ servants all morning. That is _beyond_ unusual, and it makes their giant crystalline halls even more empty than normal.

Something sits unsettled and worrisome in Lor’s chest. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

“What are we doing, mother?” Lor attempts again, voice tight with fear.

“Is a child to speak out of turn?” she asks angrily, her brown hair whipping across her face as she looks over her shoulder.

Lor obediently shakes his head. “No,” he answers.

“Then you have no turn,” she informs him. When she looks ahead once more, her fingers tighten around his wrist. “There is a lesson to be learned today.”

Silence overtakes Lor as they reach the grand hall and entrance of their palace. There _still_ are no servants to be seen, and there is also no sign of the general. Every hair on Lor’s body stands on end as he realizes just how wrong everything is set up to be.

But he cannot even _force_ himself to speak. He knows better. His _body_ knows better.

As they bound out of the giant doors to their palace, Lor realizes that they are opening up to an enormous gathering. There are purple-skinned Jekuul natives for as far as Lor’s unaided vision can see. They all face forward, toward the intimidating staircase to the palace’s entrance. And to the general.

General Zod does not even turn his shoulders toward Lor and his mother as they come to his side. He is facing forward, over the crowd.

Lor is positioned harshly, stood in front of his mother. She swiftly shifts her hand from his wrist to his shoulder, her other hand matching it. They grip him fiercely, nails clicking against the Kryptonian armor beneath.

When Lor looks up to his mother’s face, he can only see her chin as it faces the general obediently.

Then, when Lor follows her gaze, he lets out a soft gasp.

They are not the only ones standing on the stairs. There is also a familiar, tiny purple girl in his father’s grips.

“Ti’ahl? What’s she doing here?” Lor asks before his mother’s grip becomes even more constricting. He feels his chest freeze up, his heart pounding again.

“You are out of turn, child,” she hisses down at him. “Watch.”

Swallowing, Lor looks back to the General.

The General seems satisfied after Lor falls silent, and he begins speaking out in a tongue so strange but familiar. His voice booms and echoes over the silent crowds below. He’s speaking in Jakuul, Lor knows that much, but still not what his father is saying.

For a moment, Lor tries. He tries desperately to understand what is being said, but none of it makes sense. There aren’t even the familiar possibilities of understanding like he had with Ti’ahl just the day before.

Thinking of Ti’ahl, Lor glances down from his father’s face to where Ti’ahl stands trembling in the General’s grip.

She looks paler than yesterday, her purple skin lighter in the face and almost blue in her cheeks. Her big, dark eyes are tear-filled and sunken, her hair messy. It occurs to Lor that she is wearing the exact same clothes that he last saw her in.

Only at that moment does Lor realize she never made it home last night. But he can’t imagine why.

Deep down, Lor wishes to speak to her, to comfort her, to offer his cape once more, but she doesn’t even have it now. Lor wonders, idly, where it might be.

The General’s voice picks up in fervor, growing in a tempo as the crowds below become unsettled.

Lor doesn’t know what to think, what’s going on when he sees his father wrench Ti’ahl’s arm back and up into the air at a frightening angle. It makes the little girl scream in shock and begins crying, tugging.

Not sure what is going on, Lor opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

With a flick of his wrist, the General turns Ti’ahl’s arm completely upside down and a hideous snap echoes through the hot Jekuul air.

Stunned, Lor stares at his father and at the little girl he played with yesterday. The air erupts with high pitched squeals and sobs from the crowds below. Ti’ahl herself hangs limply unconscious, only held up by the General’s tremendous grip on her arm.

His mother holds him down with so much force, Lor feels as though he will sink through the stairs. He can’t look at her, can’t hear her past the thundering pulse in his own ears. He stares only at his father who is happily soaking in the shock and awe of the crowds.

Then, Lor snaps.

All he can see is red and then his father’s shoulder is smoking, singed.

And, for the first time since the night before, General Zod looks at Lor.

“I am disappointed, Faora,” the General says angrily. “You assured me that our child was being raised in the traditions of Krypton. Are those traditions not that punishments are handled by the mother?”

“They are,” Lor’s mother says, aghast, before yanking Lor into the palace doors.

Lor hits the floor before he even sees the smack coming. And it is only the first.

He hardly feels any of it, numb to everything with the sound of that _crack_ echoing throughout his whole body.


	3. The Runaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking a bit longer to update this one, I had some extra work to get done in the last week and that cut into my writing time rather than my Animal Crossing time (who could have seen that coming?) and all my fics got a slight push, though I tried to get back on track by this one’s update. Ah, partial points for effort I suppose!
> 
> As always, I need to thank everyone. for the wonderful support that this story is receiving. It means so very much to me and I wouldn’t have the motivation to keep working and improving if it weren’t for those of you who promoted and commented on it! Shout outs to @mirrorfalls, @secretlystephaniebrown, @thistleknight, and @karagordon.

Lor is in immeasurable pain.

He can feel his skin taut and broken across his back, too painful to lay on overnight. He can feel his cheek inflamed and pressing up against his eyelid. He can feel his ribs sensitive and cracked, aching against his every breath.

And the worst of it all is the way the rage against him has still not diminished.

In the past, Lor has been disciplined. It is not an unfamiliar sensation. But his parents finished with the consensus that a lesson of some sort has been learned. Lor even finds himself in agreement with them.

Not this time. Not today. He is hurt and they finished the discipline without any commentary or any softness to their expressions.

No, though, that is still not the worst. Not as Lor lays on his bed in hysteric contemplation alone in the dark.

The worst thing of all is that he cannot shut his eyes, cannot sleep, without the hideous _cracking_ of Ti’ahl’s arm sounding off between his ears. The echos of her cries and the horror of the crowds reverberate throughout Lor’s body and send cold shivers through him.

His family is not loved when the masses of Jakuul bow. And Lor’s entire universe is turned upside down knowing this.

Before this terror in his life, Lor still did not have a full understanding of his world or his life. He is, after all, a child. But he thought he understood what he was to his father and mother.

He is the Last Son of Krypton. He is the future of the House of Zod.

But he also knows that not living up to such things means that his parents’ approval is gone. And if it is gone, bad things will happen.

Now, as he understands with the display involving Ti’ahl, those consequences are far greater than anything he could have imagined beforehand.

Suddenly, horrifically, Lor understands that his life is not the most valuable part of him.

And he is scared.

In the middle of the night, alone in his room, Lor feels the strongest impulse he has ever had in his short life.

Lor-Zod knows, without a doubt, that he needs to leave.

The instinct comes from deep within him — thoughts of the Phantom Zone and its endless prison, how escaping it meant never staying somewhere he didn’t want to again. He can see it, his old dreams of leaving for different worlds the moment he was scared or unsafe.

The only home he had ever known had been the promise of leaving the places that were wrong and painful.

And, now, Lor needs to go. He’s scared. It isn’t safe.

Thinking of his lessons on the sunstones, Lor moves, sluggishly and painfully through the palace toward the transportation lab. What little Kryptonian equipment and weapons they have managed to gather and to create — or have the Jakuul create — rests in there, including the Phantom Zone pod.

The spiral pod is bronze in color with no seeable thrusters, only a thin screen that allows its occupant to see outside the pod. It does not steer, does not operate as a ship in any way, but as a bullet to be fired in a singular direction. Once someone is inside of it, outside of a Phantom Zone Projector, nothing will be able to tear the pod off its course. It will phase through matter, it will burst through time and space. And whoever is within it will sleep until they are released, heal until they are done.

And that is all Lor needs. Peaceful, forceful sleep without interruption. He needs comfort and rest, to heal up his ribs and his back and his eyes so that when he is done, he can return to being what his mother and father need him to be.

So that he is not treated and left in pain that someone like Ti’ahl experiences.

He can’t imagine there’s something better, something in between.

Lor loads his burdens onto the pod and begins setting his coordinates. He has not lived out of the Phantom Zone long and can only think of a few places he can go.

One is Krypton, his home he never knew and is no longer there.

One is Earth, his father’s enemy, and his only other point of contact.

If he can make it to Earth and back, perhaps Lor can make it through anything else. Including his parents’ anger.

At least, that is his sincere hope.

Just like that, Lor leaves his family’s palace.

* * *

Father doesn’t look surprised by Damian’s intrusion on his meeting with Cassandra. He barely acknowledges that it means Damian is missing school and instead asks him if there is anything Damian would like for him to know.

Within Damian’s heart, he feels the judgment, knows the look of his father searching him for _something_ Damian isn’t giving. It’s frustrating. It’s painful. And it’s a look he’s never seen given to Cassandra.

Damian has nothing to say except for what he feels is obvious.

“I am better than any of you see in me,” he informs his father haughtily.

His father gives him a sigh and waves him off, dismissive and annoyed. Like swatting at a fly.

“We’ll talk about it later, Damian,” Bruce Wayne says in a voice that is distinctly _lacking_ Batman in it. It’s weary and light. Others in the family call it the _Brucie Wayne_ voice, but for Damian, it’s something far worse.

It’s basically _baby talk_ toward him.

Cassandra doesn’t get that treatment either.

“I doubt it,” Damian glowers, crossing his arms.

When Damian looks back up toward his father, he is met by sharp blue eyes piercing his own gaze. _That_ is more like Batman. It sends a shiver down Damian’s spine.

Much better than baby talk, that is for certain.

“I have something important I need to discuss with Cassandra,” his father reminds him darkly. “Give us some privacy.” He gives a purposeful pause before continuing, “ _Please.”_

For a few long moments, Damian stands cross-armed beside Cassandra, facing his father’s large executive desk. The entire suite is large and deceptively slick and modern. Devices and trick switches are hidden behind the ostentatious decor and smatterings of family photographs framed and preserved seemingly forever. Newspapers are mounted with new stories of interest over the decades.

Everything is large, squared, and imposing.

Just like their father.

When it reaches the point that Damian feels as though the silence is threatening to eat them all whole, he finally relents and turns around. It takes him nearly double the strides it would require his father to make to exit the room, just as it would take him twice the height to meet the same reach his father does.

Logically, Damian knows that the unspoken part of his father’s request for privacy was for Damian to continue from his way out of the room down to the street level where Pennyworth and the car would be waiting. Then Damian could receive a whole _other_ lecture on manners and family and general _behaving_ that he has received over a dozen times before.

He’s tired of it before he’s even done processing the thought of it.

Making an executive decision of his own, Damian does not leave for Alfred and the car but instead takes a hard left at the elevator shaft. Having memorized the blueprints — the _actual_ blueprints — for Wayne Tower, Damian knows that in the blindspot of the stairwell security camera is an always taped off custodial closet. In that custodial closet is a secretive shaft that will lower into the bowels of the Tower itself.

Once a part of the robust subway tunnel system beneath the streets of Gotham, the old junction now serves as the open space for research and development of their nightly activities. At least, _one_ of the spaces for R&D at least.

It is also the one place where Damian can open up the Oracle Network safely in Wayne Towers and check in on others without causing too much of a fuss.

Anyone who notices will assume it is Batman and everyone leaves Batman alone to his devices for the most part.

Stepping up to the large silver monitor screen, Damian watches as everything in the room begins to activate — light by light, display by display. It is a very sleek and intimidating presence.

His father is good at maintaining certain aesthetic sensibilities, Damian _will_ give him that, at least.

Looking around, Damian sees the computer chair, built for the size and magnitude of Batman, and immediately jumps into it. His body impressively slumps into the cushions, leaving him staring straight ahead in annoyance.

Recovering from the momentary sag of his body, Damian scoots the chair up, hands gripped to the armrests so tightly his knuckles whiten. Then he leans forward to the keyboard and begins typing.

Using spy satellites is an unfortunate habit that Damian has picked up from his father, but he assures himself it is for good reason.

There is still something so _wrong_ and _disconcerting_ about the way that Jon reacted to Professor Pyg.

Few things dig themselves into Damian’s guts and leave him unsettled. His friend being hurt somehow by the madman was one of them. Whether it was Damian’s sense of guilt or genuine fear for Jon, Damian is still working out.

Either way, he wants to hone in on Metropolis and see how his friend is doing for himself.

It isn’t a difficult maneuver. There is already a preset coordinate to the exact location Damian needs.

Damian expects no less from his father, after all, there are a myriad of reasons to keep watch on the family and wellbeing of the most trusted and power being in the world, if not the universe.

He watches with vague interest as two figures — Superman and Superboy — approach the balcony of the Metropolis apartment in question. One has a suitcase, the other a backpack beneath his cape. Then, in a dash of color, they are both gone long before a less accurate or powerful satellite or camera would be able to capture them.

At least, Damian would hope so.

Leaning his head forward, chin sharply balanced on his palm, Damian tries to think of the expression on Jon’s face. It’s hard to tell, even with Wayne Tech advances, the nuances of someone’s face at that distance. The pixelation hides the crevices and intensity.

But Jon _seemed_ to be smiling. Which is, really, all Damian wants to make sure of.

At the end of the day, Damian does not have many friends. The ones he does have are important to him.

And he’s still not sure that allowing _himself_ to be in the equation frees his friends to have good things happen to them.

The thoughts are still heavy on his mind when the monitor and all of the Oracle Network change in an instant.

A red flash comes across the screen with a blare of a signal. Then again and again. It continues.

Damian jerks into sitting upright again. His shoulders drop as he looks around wide-eyed toward the different monitor screens.

Something is happening in Metropolis.

Reaching for the keyboard, Damian zooms out from the tiny apartment and widens his view to the city. Even above the city, there does not seem to be anything he can see at a distance. But, as he begins to wonder if he should switch to news coverage, Damian sees that the _sky_ is the source of the danger alert.

Heading directly for Metropolis is a fireball the size of a car.

Before he even thinks about contacting his father or anyone else, Damian is leaping for the closest plane his father has been working on.

He knows he might not get there before the crash, but Damian is _definitely_ going to be there to help his friend with the aftermath.

* * *

Jon still feels off-balance in the air. His leg wobbles a lot, the plank-like rigidness he needs to maintain for a smooth flight can still tire him. He’s working on it.

And it always feels easier in the morning with his dad.

When his pa smiles down at Jon, he feels like no matter how weird his thoughts for the morning, the whole world is going to be okay. That _Jon_ is going to be okay. Because how can the world be anything less than perfect when Superman himself smiles like he means it at you.

Holding onto the straps of his backpack, Jon readies to part from his dad and head down to the Siegel and Shuster Middle back gym entrance, but his ears begin thumping.

Just like when he listened for his mother’s heartbeat earlier, Jon can feel every noise, every vibration of all of Metropolis at once. His jaw tightens and he tries to push the noises out. The screech and scream and bark and cry and pop all at once, but he _knows_ that there is something still off about them. There’s something _different_ from normal if he can hone in and direct himself to it.

He halts in the air, raising his hands up to his ears and begins mashing the heels of his palms into the ear canals. It does nothing to help him out, but he _tries it_ anyway.

“Ow! What _is_ that scratchy noise?” Jon can’t help but whine.

Ordinarily, Pa’s soothing voice would put him at ease, explain everything away. But it’s different this time.

Instead, Jon glances over his shoulder and sees his father also stopped in the air. Superman stares, wide-eyed and slack-jawed for a long moment before tensing up.

“Stay here, son,” Clark orders before disappearing in a dazzling whirl of red, blue, and yellow.

The whiplash of it all nearly makes Jon go crosseyed. He regains his position in the air, hovering with far less security than his pa manages to. Then he looks around in concern.

With a simple scan of the surroundings, Jon can see what got his father’s attention and it nearly makes him gasp.

Falling from the sky, seemingly from nowhere and at ludicrous speeds, is a flaming ball of metal aimed right for the city.

“Where did that come from!?” Jon asks clouds around him.

As to be expected, he doesn’t get an answer. But Jon does know what he needs to do next, even without an omniscient reply to his questions.

At full speeds, Jon pushes himself forward, his fists held out in front of him as he aims for the exact place in the sky where his father is lining up with the mystery object.

Even at his highest speeds, Jon is too slow to get there when his father first makes contact with the object and begins flying back, resisting with all his might despite the hurdling force. He is engulfed in the flames, slowing, but still heading for the skyline of Metropolis.

There needs to be more force on Pa’s side and Jon intends to provide it.

He swoops down between the city buildings and positions himself just like he saw his father do before him. He holds his arms out wide and holds out his hands to catch.

It feels like only a blink before his hands are filled with his dad’s cape, and Jon is suddenly falling back through the skies as well.

“Jon!” Superman chokes out between gritted teeth, straining with all his power.

“Pa!” Jon manages to get out alongside him

The particulars of their conversation are forced to wait as they buckle underneath the heavy metal and flames. Jon pushes into his father’s back, his father pushes into the machine, and they progressively slow as they drop through the sky.

“Feet! Flatten your feet!” Pa orders before showing Jon with his own.

Jon obeys, the soles of his tennis shoes directed toward the ground. It still shocks him when his feet hit and the air nearly leaves his lungs, or when he skids backward with the asphalt crackling beneath them. They keep moving, backward, with the space between them getting tighter and tighter as the broken roads rise up and push Jon into his father’s back.

When they stop at long last, Jon full bodily collapses against his dad and breathes a sigh of relief.

People are already on the streets, looking on in awe, which limits the conversations they can have out loud. That doesn’t keep Jon’s pa from turning on his heels, hands on his hips, and looking at Jon very seriously.

“Son,” he says sternly. “Go to school.”

“What, no way, you’re not going to let me even look in it?” Jon asks, circling around his father as widely as possible to get to the hull of the copper-colored machine. “It’s so weird and looks like a snail shell, I bet it’s an alien!”

His father is about to continue with words of wisdom or some all-important notes on responsibility, but Jon cannot hear them. He looks instead at the strange screen on the machine they stopped together and tilts his head. It’s fogged up, like the mirror after he uses the shower, and he can’t see in it. But he _can_ see a strange, blue glow from within.

Squinting, Jon taps on the glass-like structure only to jolt as the metallic shell opens up.

A thick fog hisses out of the opening and forces Jon to wave it away from his face.

And when it’s gone, Jon looks into the face of another boy, no older than him, with strangely cut brown hair and a swollen eye and lip.

“Whoa!” Jon exclaims.

Then he is punched in the face with more force than he has ever felt in his life.

It hits so fast, so _hard,_ Jon is sent soaring through the air backward, headlong into his father’s chest as the larger than life superhero moves in to catch him.

“Superboy!” Pa yells out in code that still can’t hide his horror or anger.

 _“Ow,”_ is all Jon can manage to get out, feeling like stars are still busting behind his eyelids.

By the time he’s set back on his feet, Jon can see that the boy from the pod is floating above it, eyes wide and confused. He turns to run.

Suddenly, Pa isn’t behind Jon holding him up anymore.

Jon realizes his dad is in front of him now, next to the boy, stretched out so his large, kind hand is wrapped almost gently around the boy’s wrist. It keeps the boy back, but he isn’t fighting, isn’t resisting. He’s looking at Superman with terror, tears in his eyes.

But Jon can feel his entire face swelling, he grabs at it and looks frantically to his dad. “Dad! He punched me!”

“Hold on, son,” Superman says without looking Jon’s way. He lowers his arm, the boy slowly dropping with it, head bowing and shoulders jerking uncomfortably. Then, Superman pulls the mystery boy to his chest and holds him. “Hold on.”

Confused and more than a little betrayed, Jon shakes his head at the nonsense and rubs at his aching face.

He doesn’t know what’s going on, he can’t even contemplate it. But he’s hurt and he has a bad feeling it’s going to get worse.


End file.
